Crossways, Minley Manor

Age 10

 

School run, homeward bound.

Nine kids jemmied into a taxi

pre Jimmy Saville;

three up front, four in the back,

one in each foot-well.

Someone always lets rip a real

humdinger;

boys farting proudly,

girls releasing more

surreptitiously.

So deliciously innocent.

 

Last drop- red gabled hood

over scented greenwood.

Rhododendron enclave

gave privacy and showy blooms alike.

At the door, apron clad, floured

of hand and cheek

Mrs May meets and greets us,

‘Scones for tea… Yippee!’

Four inches high

they belie their lumpen looks,

still warm and buttery,

home-made-damson-jammy heaven.

 

We had handmade dad-made

whittled whistles

so we could find each other mid

the pines and rustling birches

where we often hid,

only revealing our position

when called into the kitchen

for shepherds pie,

or stew, or fish on Fridays

always with bread and butter

and a cuppa.

 

House on the round

We ran from kitchen to sitting room to hall to kitchen,

round and round,

chasing ghosts,

the sound of

slamming doors confounding Mother’s patience.

 

Later,

nestled in the sloping eves,

playing kiss chase in our dreams,

onanistic pleasures

our new discovered

midnight treasures.

 

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